


Ask, Seek, Knock

by LongLiveRogers



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Getting Together, Idiots in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29972907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LongLiveRogers/pseuds/LongLiveRogers
Summary: “For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?For them all together.”—Much Ado About Nothing, Act V, Scene 2After it all, Aziraphale finds the courage to say what he’s meant to for six thousand years.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 80





	Ask, Seek, Knock

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, Catholic education, for the Bible verses I memorized. And thanks, sofa and mags and Eli, for being my betas and reminding me it’s okay to suck the first time you try.

“Crowley, erm. Hello.” He smiles self-consciously into the mirror. 

This is going terribly. 

“We’ve known each other for a long time, and...oh, that’s incredibly cliche, isn’t it?” 

He smooths his jacket, adjusts his bowtie. “Crowley. Listen. There’s something I should...I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s something you should know.”

They’ve got plans for dinner tonight, somewhere posh (It’s a surprise) and then  _ Fleabag  _ on the West End, after which they will, inevitably, get sloshed out of their minds. 

Aziraphale knows how it’ll go by now, knows the familiar steps in their pas de deux. 

_ Fancy a nightcap? _

All he ever has to do is ask. Isn’t that how the verse goes? Ask, and it will be given you.

_ Whatever you want, angel. _

_ Seek, and you will find. _ He wishes it were that easy. To know what he wants (soft mornings and wandering hands and park benches and evenings just like this one) and ask, to reach, like he’s wanted to for so long, to reach and be reached for back and not be afraid. 

_ Knock, and the door will be opened for you _ . He’s going to, tonight. He’s going to tell him, in the dim light and cozy clutter of the bookshop, when the night has gone all blurry with drink and laughter, when they’ve lost the thread of conversation and arrived somewhere entirely different from where they started. When Crowley’s shades come off, when Aziraphale is brave enough to inch closer, closer. When he can lay a hand over Crowley’s and say what he’s meant to for six thousand years. 

He has tried before. Lord knows (goodness, does She?) that he’s burned enough unsent letters to fill a post office, written and kept enough poetry between the pages of his most precious first editions for several human lifetimes. He’s tried to say it out loud. It never does come out right, muddled as it is by fear, by his desire to protect them both. If Crowley could sense love, he surely would have noticed the large and rather embarrassing neon sign that’s been over Aziraphale’s head since at least their time in Rome. 

But he can’t sense those things, at least not to Aziraphale’s knowledge; and if he can, he’s been very astutely ignoring how terribly, inconveniently, hopelessly besotted Aziraphale has been with him for millennia. How considerate.

How  _ embarrassing _ .

“I know I said such awful things, before. I know I hurt you, and that’s--that's the last thing I want. You’ve been so patient with me, so wonderful. And it’s time I caught up. It’s time I was brave.”

Aziraphale remembers denying him.  _ we’re not friends, we’re on opposite sides. It’s over.  _ He remembers Crowley’s face: the surprise, the hurt, the way the lie had broken his own heart in two.  _ it’s easier this way, it’s safer this way _ . He remembers Crowley’s voice, later. Broken. _ I lost my best friend. _

He remembers all the words he never had the courage to say. 

“Crowley,” he says, a tad shakily. “I love you.” 

The earth doesn’t tremble and crack beneath his feet. There is no clap of thunder from Above, no judgement, only...

“Angel?”

_ Oh...bother.  _

He wasn’t meant to hear that. Not just yet. Aziraphale had been practicing all afternoon to make it right, and, well—

And Crowley is standing  _ right there _ . 

Aziraphale is frozen. He doesn’t ask  _ how much of that did you hear? _ —he doesn’t need to. Crowley is still as he never is--all the livewire energy gone out of him, and Aziraphale knows he’s heard enough.

He wants to say something, anything to break the pin-drop silence between them. He wants— he wants to be able to breathe again, but the tightness in his chest, the speeding of his unnecessary heart won’t allow him. 

He wants to see his eyes, golden and familiar. He wants...

Crowley. With his ridiculous haircut ( _ it’s stylish! _ ) and his mischievous smile and his considerably loose definition of obeying traffic laws. With his kindness, and his patience, his quick wit. With his temper, too, and his curiosity. Long-fingered hands that once fashioned the stars, the same ones he offers to unsuspecting humans over a signed contract, to the sick children he heals under the guise of the Arrangement. To Aziraphale, at the end of the world. 

_ For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me? _

_ For them all together.  _

In the end, this is what he’d done it for. For the Earth, yes, for the humans and their cleverness, the good and the bad, but for him and Crowley, too. For the opportunity to choose  _ our side,  _ over and over. 

They had eternity, now. It’d be a shame if they didn’t use it.

Aziraphale closes the distance between them in a few strides, more sure of himself, of this, than ever.

“May I?” he asks softly, raising a hand to cup Crowley’s cheek. 

Crowley nods, slow, leans into the touch. The glasses are gone, likely disappeared with a thought, and his eyes are wide with what Aziraphale knows is love, love, love. 

Oh, he’d been an idiot. __

“Say it again?” 

Something aches in him at that, at the smallness of his voice, at the hope in it. Like he can’t quite believe he isn’t dreaming. Aziraphale knows the feeling. 

They are nose to nose now, Crowley’s breath ghosting over his lips. 

“Darling…” he whispers, voice breaking.  _ You’re beautiful. Did you know, this close, that your freckles make constellations? That your hair smells like smoke? That you shouldn’t be warm, reptile that you are, and yet-- _

Crowley’s lips are soft, and his hands are warm.

“I love you.”

Another kiss, deeper. Hands wind into his hair, and Crowley’s mouth parts just so to let him in. and this-- _ oh my,  _ why hadn’t they done this eons ago? It is at once burning and soothing, the lighting of a match in a dark place, the shelter of a wing from the first rain. Aziraphale snakes an arm around Crowley’s waist, pulling him closer, closer, as if he can hold the two of them here for the next eternity, spinning in their own pocket of the cosmos, further and further away from six thousand years of worry, of wanting. Spinning only in each other’s orbit, two stars that, to the naked eye, are one.

Aziraphale is smiling against Crowley’s lips, and Crowley chases them with his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> unfortunately-aziraphale on tumblr


End file.
